


A Matter of Reciprocity

by bees_stories



Series: The Matter Series [2]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: First Time, Frot, Hand Job, M/M, relationship angst, wank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:25:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sherlock predicted, after an experiment gone awry forced him to go to John for help with a very personal problem there were changes in their relationship. Now John is struggling, and it's Sherlock's turn to reach out before their friendship is damaged beyond repair. Sequel to 'The Matter at Hand'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Reciprocity

***

John's latest conquest wore mid-priced scent. The sort that could be purchased at any large department store. Its primary component seemed to be vanilla and it was punctuated with notes of citrus and cinnamon. It would have been a pleasant fragrance, if its user had been a shade more restrained in its application. As it was, it clung cloyingly to John's skin and clothing, as did the odours of sweat and sex. 

Sherlock sighed and turned the page of his newspaper as his flatmate dropped into the chair across from him and poured tea. 

John yawned theatrically. "Sorry," he said, sounding not sorry at all. He took a slurping helping from his cup before continuing. "I didn't get much sleep last night." 

Sherlock declined to accept the bait. In the last three weeks John had engaged in this tiresome bit of pantomime four times. Each had involved a different woman, none of whom John could put a name to with any degree of accuracy.

There was one item in the classified advertisements of potential interest. Sherlock tore it out of the paper, dropped the rest of the pages on the floor, and rose from the table. He glanced at John as he did so and noted the lines that were starting to build into permanent creases around his eyes.

He wasn't sleeping well, that much was obvious, and it had little to do with his latest peccadillo. He had become short tempered and irritable. When John wasn't making a point to brag about his affairs, he went out of his way to avoid Sherlock's company. Even Mrs Hudson had noticed and commented. 

"Perhaps this will help you focus." Sherlock dropped the item next to John's tea cup and went to dress for the morning's adventure.

The trip to the wilds of Sussex, and the not inconsiderable difficulty of reuniting a family with their long lost legacy, which thus restored their fortunes and saved their struggling tea shop – a business that had been in the family for three generations – did much to restore John's spirits and went a considerable way towards rebuilding their damaged camaraderie. A faulty transmission and the emergency accommodation where they were forced to shelter from a sudden and furious storm threatened to shatter the day's progress to pieces. 

John stood in the doorway of the only room available, a ramshackle converted garret, stared at the solitary double bed, and stated quite flatly, "No." 

Sherlock ignored him. He, like John, was shivering from a sustained dousing and the abrupt change in temperature, and he had every intention of getting warm and dry as quickly as possible. Brushing past John to get to the bathroom, he glanced at the bed and decided he'd had enough. "John, come inside." 

For a moment John looked like he might bolt, then he shut the door and leaned against it with his arms folded over his chest. His expression was closed and dark. Sherlock spared enough time to lob a dry towel in John's direction before he started the ludicrously compact shower and began to strip out of his wet clothes.

"Something is troubling you." There was no point in telling John he knew exactly what. That would only result in a staunch denial and possibly an unrepairable breach in their friendship. "You've not been yourself lately." 

"I'm fine." John stared down at the towel and at the small puddle that was forming around his feet, but he did nothing about either. 

Sherlock had expected the answer. He offered neither rebuke or rebuttal before he got under the shower's spray. Though the bathroom was tiny, the water pressure more than adequate. Ten minutes later he re-emerged from under the spray feeling considerably better. 

He glanced out into the bedroom and noted that John had taken off his coat and used the towel to blot the rain from his face and hair but made no further effort to either warm or dry himself. "Shower," Sherlock instructed. "Don't argue." 

For a moment, John looked like he might just out of spite. Fortunately, his common sense prevailed, and he marched through the oddly decorated but otherwise comfortable room without comment, although his expression still spoke volumes about his unhappy state of mind. 

With a sigh, Sherlock got into bed. The mattress was old, but offered an acceptable degree of support. The duvet over the plain cotton sheets was thick and warm, if a rather uninspired shade of blue. He nestled against the pillows and filed the events of the day into their proper places in his memory palace. When he'd finished, John was hanging their clothes to dry in front of the radiator. 

"You've settled in, I see." 

"Why not?" Sherlock retorted. "I'm tired. The bed is warm." He flipped the blankets back in invitation. "It's a perfectly adequate space for two, John. Get in before you start shivering again." 

He did, but sat upright against the headboard and stared straight ahead at the curtained window watching the rain beat against the panes. Sherlock sighed, releasing a small amount of his considerable frustration. "I suppose this is my fault." 

John jerked, sending a tremor through the headboard. "I don't know what you mean." 

Resentment swelled heavy in his chest and Sherlock barely resisted the urge to smack John with a pillow. "You've changed. If it hadn't been for me … requiring your help, you wouldn't be acting the way you are."

"Acting the way … What way?" John sputtered. "I'm not acting any different than I was before." 

Sherlock glowered as his patience slipped. "You used to make at least a modicum of effort to treat the women you bed like human beings. Now you can't be bothered to remember their names. Let alone call them the morning after."

"Why should you care?" John shot back.

"I don't," Sherlock replied, just as vehemently. "Except that I see the toll these meaningless encounters are having on you. It's not in your nature to use others, John. But that's what you're doing. And then you get angry because you know you're better than that. It needs to stop before you tear yourself apart." 

Sherlock watched helplessly as John's shoulders slumped and he collapsed into himself, wrapping his arms around his knees and dropping his head against his hands. He stayed that way for several long moments before he spoke. "You're right," John muttered. "What have I become?"

"John," Sherlock said in a near whisper. "Let me help you." 

John laughed. It was a dark, ugly, hopeless sound. He wiped fruitlessly at his eyes, but tears still threatened to spill down his cheeks. He took a deep, shuddering breath, let it out again, and then spoke.

"Maybe it was inevitable. Ever since the very first night I met you people have just assumed … But you said ... And I knew … But still, it didn't seem to matter … Look at tonight. Publican didn't even bat an eye, just said, "Let me show you and your partner to your room, Mr Holmes. And when I try and correct them, they just smile sort of patronisingly and carry on as if I never opened my mouth. Why is that, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock let John's wash of babble roll over him, picking out the pertinent bits of information as he did so. Even though he had done his best to prepare for just this moment, he found he was as much at a loss for words as he was when he first realised what was at the root of John's problem. He mirrored John's posture because he found he needed to hold something, but knew John would recoil from his touch.

"I've tried to explain, John. Most people are unable to interpret their observations correctly. They see two men who spend a great deal of time in one another's company. Men who know their lives depend on one another and who trust each other completely, and they construe the closeness they share as love."

John's head raised, and out of the corner of his eye Sherlock could see wariness in his companion's expression. 

"I do have feelings for you, John." He looked down at his palm and noted the uncharacteristic dampness that betrayed his nervousness at making such an unaccustomed declaration. "You are dearer to me than my own brother. You've become my right hand. When my experiment failed who else could I turn to but you? You – "

"I was there." John sounded miserable. "I know how embarrassed and upset you were. When I was helping you … I felt ... a lot of things. I haven't been able to make sense of most of them."

"Is this about sex?" Sherlock asked bluntly when John finally wound down. There was no other way he could interpret John's hemming and hawing. An unwanted sexual attraction would certainly explain John's string of one night stands. 

"Yes. No." John was bunching the duvet between his fists in a futile effort to channel his frustration. His cheeks had turned flaming crimson. "I didn't think I would, but I enjoyed … helping you. Watching you fall apart under my hands like that was the most erotic thing I'd seen in a long time." John's voice dropped to a whisper. "Passion makes you beautiful, Sherlock."

John was in pain. His confession, rather than freeing his soul, had only contributed to his misery. Sherlock reacted without thinking. He reached out and pulled his friend and companion into an embrace.

John's breathing was ragged. His cheek, cradled against Sherlock's bare chest, dampened with fresh tears. Outside, wind whipped the trees and rain pelted against the windows. The weather seemed to reflect John's emotional turmoil. 

Sherlock felt at a loss. He kissed the top of John's head as if he were a child. John looked up with him with an anguished expression and then he struggled to free himself. "Don't. For the love of god, Sherlock, please don't make this worse than it already is." He was half way out of the bed before Sherlock could react.

"John, wait." Sherlock snagged John's wrist, preventing his escape. "Tell me what you want." 

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched the lightning spark and crackle as it hit a tree. Thunder shook the room and the lights went out. 

"John?" 

"I don't know. Have sex with me. Or don't … Yeah, that would probably be better." 

Sherlock sighed. He glanced at the armchair that took up one corner of the garret and decided for a few hours it would be adequate. He got out of bed and wrapped the duvet around his frame. 

"What are you doing?" John asked. 

"You need to sleep," Sherlock replied. "I'm trying to make things easier for you." 

"Wait." This time it was John who stilled Sherlock's progress. "Don't go."

John shut off the lights in case the power came back on and got back into bed. Sherlock hesitated, and then joined him. He listened to John's steady exhalations and considered what he'd learned. 

John loved him. Sherlock was all right with that. As he explained to John, in his own way as much as he was capable, he reciprocated the feeling. The problem was John was on the precipice of being _in love_ with him, which was a completely different proposition. 

Romantic love interfered with reason. In his line of work Sherlock couldn't afford to entertain such a potentially crippling emotion. The sort of affection he felt for John was dangerous enough, but the benefits, at least until then, had outweighed the liabilities. 

John understood, which was why he was in such turmoil. What was happening between them threatened the partnership they both had come to depend on. He didn't want to risk it any more than Sherlock did. 

And then, in the darkness, as the storm raged and John clutched fitfully at the pillow on which he rested his head, Sherlock had the answer. He scooted close and put his hand on John's hip. 

"Sherlock!" John sounded absolutely panicked. 

"It's a matter of reciprocity, John," Sherlock said as he traced the curve of John's thigh with his palm. "You took care of me. I'll take care of you. It's just sex: arousal and release. A purely natural biological function."

John went very still under Sherlock's hands. Illogically, time seemed to stretch. Each tick of the clock seemed an eternity as John struggled with his conflicted feelings. "Yeah, all right." He turned over and looked up. Even in the dim light it was easy to read the trust in John's eyes.

Sherlock extended his arm. "Should we kiss?" John shook his head and some of Sherlock's misgivings dissipated. Kissing implied a much higher degree of intimacy than he'd proposed. "Come here." 

They shifted the pillows and then their bodies, making themselves more comfortable. John's back against his chest made the situation both more impersonal and curiously intimate. Sherlock stroked John's hip and let his hand glide forward until his fingertips brushed against the thatch of coarse hair between John's legs. 

John sighed. He sighed even more breathlessly as Sherlock cupped his scrotum and gently fondled. "Good?" he asked. John guided his hand, impatient now that he'd succumbed to his curiosity. His shaft filled Sherlock's palm comfortably, and he took a moment to study the different textures; the rise of a vein, the ridge of the corona, the silky smooth skin that covered an erection that could have been carved of finest marble. 

"Stop teasing." John's voice was low and throaty. Its timbre sent a curious vibration down Sherlock's spine that went straight to his groin. He wrapped his arm tighter against John's chest, pulling him even closer, and he let John position his fingers and guide his movements until they found a pleasing rhythm. 

John began to mutter. Short words. Profane words. His hips began to shift, pushing his erection against Sherlock's palm and his buttocks against Sherlock's groin. Sherlock felt himself getting hard, but this time he welcomed the sensation. John was there, and he was eager. He seem to welcome Sherlock's involuntary thrusts, pushing back against them every time Sherlock's hips rolled forward. 

Outside the storm raged on. Lighting crashed perilously near, illuminating the room in its blue-white glare. On the bed, their bodies gleamed with sweat as they strained against one another. Sherlock closed his eyes, letting the wash of scents and sounds engulf him. John was panting in harsh, ragged gasps. His palm was curled over Sherlock's fingers again, and in that moment his caress seemed more sensual than anything Sherlock was doing. He found that curious and would have stopped to ponder, but John was pushing against him, his hips lifting as his feet dug into the mattress, leaving his own erection bereft at the loss of contact. 

John litany of 'oh yeah' and 'right there' came to a stuttering halt. His head arched back against Sherlock's collarbone and he froze for a long moment as under his palm John's penis jerked and the first warm, viscous spurt of ejaculate pulsed forth. Sherlock held him. Anchored him. Dragged him down as he fought to pull away and pressed their bodies close until he too began to spill. 

Sherlock wasn't sure which one of them started chuckling first, but it was John who spoke. "Thanks," he said. There was a smile in his voice that had been missing for weeks. 

"For what?" A lightening strike turned the garret blue-white bright again and Sherlock saw the smile was bowing John's lips as well. 

John gestured aimlessly at the room at large, at the bed, at them. "You're lazy. Rude. Frequently infuriating," John said as he wiped at his chest with his fingers. "But you're also the only person I know that would go this far to help me get my head straight. This... this was good. But it's not who we are." 

"I've told you before, John," Sherlock said gently. He reached for a box of tissues and handed a handful to John before taking some for himself. "strong emotions cloud reason. You're a passionate man, but your feelings got muddled. For my part in that, I am sorry." 

John sat up. He glanced over his shoulder and frowned. "You came down my back." 

Sherlock shrugged. He leaned over the side of the bed and fished around with his fingertips until he located the towel he'd abandoned earlier. "Allow me." He wiped John's back clean. "Better?" 

"Much." John frowned again as he put his hand against the mattress. "There's a wet spot." 

Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose that rules out any post-orgasm cuddle."

John tossed a pillow that caught Sherlock in the chest. "I never took you for a cuddler." 

"You know me, John." Sherlock plumped the pillow and then tucked it under his head. "I'll try anything once in the name of science." He patted the mattress at his side and raised an eyebrow in invitation. 

"Go to sleep, Sherlock." John's words were laced with fond exasperation, but he curled close anyway. They lapsed into sleep as the storm blew itself out and the moon broke through the clouds.

end

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